Leon B, a new artist from Orange County, California, just released a song called Latino Perspective. In it, he sends a rally cry for all Latinos across the nation to unite, proclaim their heritage, and be proud of it. At a time where most artist are rap about getting money and being on drugs, it’s refreshing to hear an honest take on the climate of today’s Latin community. Leon B urges those in his community to take a look at themselves and realize that there’s no limit to what they can contribute to society. With an old-school beat and honest lyrics, Latino Perspective sends a powerful message and gives us a glimpse into the music of Leon B.

As a school assignment, we were to give a presentation about the reasons why we wanted to be a therapist. I, of course, decided to write a monologue about my life and how it led to me being in a classroom learning skills to become one. However, as the weeks progressed and my monologue became more personal, I decided that I was not ready to share. Instead I gave a presentation using family photos that showed a glimpse into my personal life. I concluded by saying that I wanted to be a therapist for my family. Funny, how I almost convinced myself that this was the truth.

Through the process of looking at my childhood, adolescence, and adult life, I discovered just how much of my past I had been running from. I do hope everything makes sense. Thank you.

In order to understand why I want to be therapist, I had to reflect back.

I thought of when I was a kid and how I constantly heard my mom get yelled at by my dad.

I remember how she just stood there, took it all, and begged him to stop drinking.

I thought about when my dad drank, his anger, and the pain I felt when he hit me and my older brothers.

I remember my older brothers, the drugs they took, them getting locked up, and taken away.

I thought about how alone I felt, the bad thoughts in my head, and how scared I was of someone finding out.

As a child, I wanted to escape my family.

But those thoughts of hanging and drowning myself became unbearable.

Instead, I decided to separate myself from my family. That way their problems were no longer mine.

My older brother wasn’t schizophrenic. He faked all the voices he heard in his head. And just for attention, he lost those twenty pounds. Barely slept. Never showered. He stunk so bad from not cleaning himself after going to the restroom that my dad forced him into the bathtub, yelled at him, and threw water on him until he was clean. Slowly his screams faded. He never learned his lesson.

My other brother, I hated him. His promises and his lies. The last real conversation I had with him was when we were both outside staring at the clouds and he turned to me and told me that things were only going to get worse from there on. This was before the meth. Before he got locked up for breaking into an empty house to sleep in when my dad finally decided to kick him out. Before the drugs messed with his head so much that he could barely speak in complete sentences.

At the age of fourteen, I convinced myself that they deserved it. We stopped talking soon after.

Years later when both were deported, I was too focused on school to care. And when one of them went missing, I was too concerned with moving to San Francisco to pursue a degree in a field that helps people that he never crossed my mind. And when I graduated, I was too obsessed with finding the right job that I had forgotten to visit the remaining one. And when I got the job, I was too stressed out to notice that he needed my help.

At the group home, I worked most days and long hours. Heard all these tragic stories by clients. I thought I was making a difference.

Then one day, a client ran away and I ran after her. I didn’t mind her cursing at me or the fact that I was running into traffic. I needed to save her. We ran far until she eventually got tired and decided to lie on the grass. She turned to me and asked why I didn’t just leave her. Nobody wanted her and nobody cared. I stood there silently. As she began to cry, I thought about how alone she felt. Her life full of pain. How much she reminded me of my older brothers. All her life she struggled with abuse. At the age of eleven she started using drugs. At thirteen she was arrested. And at fourteen she was sent to the group home. Before she ran away, she was told that she needed to stay there a few months longer because she was caught using drugs again. She told me she felt stuck and just wanted to be home and see her family. As I looked back at her, I finally said that I cared for her and the only thing that mattered in that moment was her. She began to cry again, but a few minutes later she stopped. A staff came and we were able to get her to return back. The next day she thanked me for running after her and to let me know that I was fast as hell. I smiled. Weeks later she relapsed and months later she ran away again. I will never know what happened to her or if I ever made an impact.

So why do I want to become a therapist?

Because of the guilt. Because I convinced myself that if I help others, it will ease the pain of not helping my older brother’s. But it won’t. And I will continue to search for that missing void in my life. And it will hurt. But in time, I will learn to let go. Learn that not all the things I experienced were my fault. I know that’s not the healthiest reason. Or a good one. But that’s the truth. And perhaps, that’s what that assignment was all about.

Here’s a link to the audio version of my post. Thank you for all the support.

If so, I would like to say hi and welcome you to my blog. And for those who have not heard from me in years, I would like to apologize. My life these past two years have been chaotic (and that’s keeping it simple). I went from home to home trying to find a place to call my own, changed job positions, and invested a significant amount of time and money on pursuing a Masters degree.

However, life happened and I am no longer in the right circumstances to continue.

I hope to share with you, in time, that chapter of my life. You’ll understand all of my struggles, my joys, and my pains. But for now, I would like to share something that I have not told my family. I am trying to find meaning in my life and in the process, I have decided to become a freelance writer. To tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue about what I am getting myself into, but that has never stopped me before.

When my guidance counselor told me that I would not go to a four-year college, I ended up graduating from San Francisco State University with a B.A. in Psychology and minor in Counseling. When all my other brother’s dropped out of school, I applied to a Masters program and got in. And I will continue to move forward regardless.

My stories aren’t too sophisticated (trust me, I know). Nor are they grammatically perfect (that is a creative choice). But they are honest (I promise). And that’s why I want to write and make a living out of it. I want to share my story and help at least one person get through the day. Or to make them laugh. Or cry. Or make them not feel alone.

And with that announcement, I would like some help from you.

I know this may alienate the people who read my blog, but I would appreciate any leads that can help in me becoming a freelance writer or at least a place where I can make a living sharing my stories.

Here is a list of some stories that show off my writing skills. I hope you all enjoy them! 🙂

Instead of writing something new, I thought of going back to the past. When I first started this blog and writing random posts. These posts were more simple and short. Kind of like me. They were before I had an audience who seemed to care about my life. Before I started writing more meaningful and longer posts. Not that there is anything wrong with that (Seinfeld reference). But I think it is fun to look back and read all of my randomness. So here are a few of my favorite posts that just didn’t garner much views. I hope you give them a try. And please, don’t judge my weirdness! 😛

My Life Through Daft Punk: All Time Views: 22

I guess people just don’t like the French. Haha. Just kidding of course. This post was inspired when I was going through a rough breakdown in the summer of 2013 and the only thing that seemed to help was listening to a song titled, “Fresh” by Daft Punk. The post describes the images that go through my head when I hear that song. I will admit that the writing is a bit choppy, but I was just starting to write! Geeze, I said not to judge. Anyways, if you like Daft Punk and pictures of the beach, you will definitely like this post.

Okay now, I’m quite proud of this post right here. Not because I spent a month putting pieces of my interests together, but because the finished story feels perfect to me. I think this was when I decided that writing could be…like you know…fun! I hope you can spot all the references.

This post gives you some insight into what I thought about when I was younger. The post reads more like a diary entry, but I like the fact that it also let’s you know what I was thinking about before I had a breakdown. It’s short and honest.

Okay, I have no idea why this post didn’t get many views. This was the start of when I started to write long and meaningful stories. And to be honest, this was a deeper reveal into my personal life. This post tells the story of when I was young and in love (as cheesy as it sounds). If you ever wanted to know about my relationships, then this will definitely give you a glimpse.

Growing up, my older brothers and I were complete opposites. They were social, fun, and rebellious while I was shy, boring, and compliant. So much in fact, that my aunts and uncles would ask me to baby sit my cousins while they went out to run errands. I didn’t mind. I was happy that someone trusted me enough to let me take care of their children. I made sure my cousins watched appropriate shows on T.V., ate enough food, and stayed out of trouble. I was only five years older, but I felt like an adult. They would tell me when they were having a bad day and I would try my best to let them know that everything would be okay. I made sure they felt protected under my watch. I was with them during the good times and the bad. They became the brothers that I never had as a child. They grew into responsible teenagers in front of my eyes, and that’s something I’m very proud of witnessing.

But this post is dedicated to a very special cousin of mine. Miguel.

Ever since I can remember, this cousin of mine has had a very difficult life. His mom passed away when he was around eight years old. I remember that day. And how everyone in my house cried. And mourned. And cried some more. I can’t imagine the feeling of losing a mother. But he continued on. He got retained from the third grade because he stayed a little longer in Mexico for his mother’s funeral. He had to make new friends and watched his other cousins celebrate school achievements a year ahead of him. Although he always struggled with school, he kept on trying. At the age of fifteen, his dad got deported back to Mexico. I can’t imagine what was going through his head when he found out, but again he kept going. He kept going after his two surgeries for his bad ankles, when he stayed in the hospital for weeks because he was malnourished, or when people constantly teased him because they never considered to be smart.

I doubt he even cares. See, my cousin has family that loves him. And I think that’s what keeps him going. During family events he shares his stories and tells jokes that make everybody in the room laugh. He is as care free as can be and everyone loves him. So we were surprised when we heard what happened a few months ago.

I was with my best friend in San Francisco when my little brother called me. I thought it was strange. My brother never called me. He asked if I was sitting down and I assured him that I was. His voice sounded different. As if he had just finished crying. He told me that he didn’t want to worry me, but that he was at the hospital with the family. I was confused, so I asked what was wrong. He didn’t say anything. He began crying. I had never heard my little brother cry so hard before. It was painful. Again, I asked what was wrong. A few seconds went by then I heard him say, “they shot Miguel.” I don’t remember much after that. I remember my best friend walking me out to the car because I couldn’t stop crying. I remember talking to my family on my phone, asking how my cousin was doing, and crying some more. I remember crying myself to sleep around three in the morning.

I went to visit him when I returned from San Francisco around midnight. There were around ten or so people in the room visiting him. My cousins said that the night before around twenty people showed up. He was lying there on his bed. He couldn’t talk and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Finally, he looked up and saw me. I didn’t know what to say to him. He stared, smiled, and gave me a thumps up. I tried my best not to cry. I smiled and gave a thumps up as well.

The doctor told us the bullet hit near his spine. A few centimeters in a different direction and my cousin could have been paralyzed.

Over the next few weeks, my family visited him at the hospital. A few of my cousins slept over on their days off work. He was able to go home three weeks later, but had a hard time walking and talking. He lost fifteen pounds from all the surgeries and had to drop out of school for the semester. He stopped working also. His life completely changed, but his personality stayed the same.

A few weeks ago, I took him out to eat. He couldn’t remember getting shot, but he did remember waking up in the hospital and seeing his family. He was thankful and happy to see us. We continued talking about life and his future. And all of a sudden I saw him as the five year old kid that I used to baby sit. And just like that, I was taking care of him again. And I realized just how short our lives can really be.

Like always, he keeps telling us jokes, makes us laugh, and continues to smile through every obstacle. I really don’t know how he does it. He’s got the spirit of a champ. But I guess that’s something nobody can take away from him.

A couple weeks ago, a person I had previously hooked up with contacted me to say he was HIV positive. I stood there quietly as I reread his text. I was shocked and didn’t know how to feel. I asked him when he found out and if I should be worried. He told me he had been positive for 6 months, but that he was undetectable now. He kept on insisting that we should sex again and to forget about using condoms. I stopped listening. He continued going on about how condoms burn him, make him break out, and how much he loved bareback sex. I just hung up. But I didn’t mean to be rude. He chose to engage in high risk behaviors and became HIV positive. I chose not to have sex with him again.

I walked into the clinic early in the morning the next day. I gave the receptionist my personal information and told her that I had been to this particular clinic before. She smiled and told me to wait in the lobby until I was called. I took a seat and saw a couple holding hands in front of me. They were watching T.V. and occasionally the guy would burst out laughing. I smiled. They were a cute couple. On the left of me was a girl who looked no more than 20 years old. She stared at the T.V., but never laughed. Not even during the funny parts. I continued watching T.V. until the nurse called my name.

I walked into the other room and knew the procedure. I took everything out of my pockets and got weighed. I had lost four pounds. The nurse gave me a small container to pee in and told me go inside the bathroom. I took a pee, left the container inside, washed my hands, and stared at myself in the mirror. I stood there for a few minutes. Then I began to cry. I don’t know why. After, I washed my face, walked to another room, and waited for the doctor.

She was petite and had a friendly smile. She asked the usual questions: Are you on any type of medication? Are you experiencing any type of symptoms? How many sex partners have you had since your last check up? I told her that I was not on any type of medication and I didn’t know what were symptoms of HIV. She started explaining a few symptoms and I just nodded. I really just wanted to leave. She then asked how many sex partners I had in the last year and suddenly I became sad. I told her I didn’t know. It was a pretty rough year for me. She told me to make an estimate, so I did. I had never lied to a doctor before. She made a note, walked toward the door, and said the nurse would be there shortly to take my blood.

I waited quietly for the nurse. She walked inside and told me to extend my right arm so she could take my blood. I did as I was told and looked the other way. I didn’t want to see her or the needle. I had always been afraid of seeing blood. As, I sat there staring at the wall, I thought about the first time I got tested and how scary the experience had been. I thought about the time I found out I had gonorrhea and the embarrassment I felt telling my partners. I thought about how much I hated taking the pill to get rid of it. I thought about how I could recall the number of sex partners a few years earlier and how I now couldn’t. I then felt a sharp pain on my arm. I never was used to the needle. The nurse told me it would be over soon. I said okay and continued looking at the wall. Time had never moved more slowly in my life.

Once done, the nurse gave me condoms and told me to check out in the front. I walked to the receptionist and she said that the clinic would call if the results showed anything positive. I thanked her and quickly walked to my car. I sat there and looked at the bandage that the nurse put on my arm and touched it lightly. The pain was gone. There was nothing I could do now, but wait to get my results. And for a small moment, everything seemed alright. I started the car, hid the bag of condoms in the glove compartment, and drove home.

I don’t think anybody really knew me. But then again, I hardly think anyone really cared. This is a poem of my short life. And by the time you read this. It will probably be too late. But I really did try. Here is my poem:

“They thought he was a joke. So they laughed.

They thought he never replied. So they left.

Maybe it was all for the best.

He lived another day. No matter how hard he resisted.

He lost everything. Even happiness left.

He should have hugged it one last time.

No one knew why he never returned.”

Hard to believe. But perhaps my life was meant to be short.

“No flowers, no funeral, no nothing.”

UPDATE: I would first like to thank all of you for the supportive comments. I did not expect much of anything when I published this post. I truly apologize for making people worry about my life. That was not my intention. I really didn’t think anyone cared. I was just feeling pretty lousy with life. I do want to say, that what I published yesterday was how I felt at some point in my life, so I don’t want to dismiss those feelings of sadness, isolation, and rejection. Funny, after I published my post, my best friend sent me a message. She doesn’t know about my blog, but she finally wanted to talk with me. And that was enough for me to keep going. I decided to change the format and the post out of convenience for everyone. Once again, thank you for being there for me. I really do appreciate the support and lovely comments. Thank you.